Through Darkest Unknown
by SneakAttack29
Summary: A girl from modern-day America begins mysteriously showing up in the ark when she dreams. Allen befriends her while also keeping her confounding presence a secret from the Order, but there's more of a purpose behind Emily's sudden appearances than he - or she - could even hope to fathom. There may be a key to winning this war after all. They just have to find it.
1. A Childish Dream

_**Through Darkest Unknown  
**_ _ **By:**_ SurreptitiousFox245

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own DGM or the song ' _Never Alone_ ' - all rights go to their respective peoples. I'm just borrowing for creativity. And because the cliffhanger DGM left off on is driving me batty. And because I like psychology and wanted to explore a bit.

 **Quick Author's Note:** I'm mildly experimenting with this. The premise is different from what I've seen in terms of an OC in DGM, so I'd really appreciate feedback on if y'all like it or not.

Again. Experimenting. I'm also forewarning, I'm taking a few creative liberties in terms of DGM timeline. This story starts three weeks after Cross' meeting with Allen and telling him about the 14th, and his subsequent "death". I'm assuming that since, per the anime, the exorcists had been on non-stop missions while the new HQ was being constructed, they've been given some time off. So I'm allowing for a few months' gap between Cross' death and the Phantom Thief G debacle.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1:**_ A Childish Dream

* * *

" _When your hope has been broken, and the fear is unspoken but true—  
_ _you're never alone.  
_ _Like a dream in a child, or a childish dream in you…_ "

 _-_ Jesse Bonanno, " _Never Alone_ "

* * *

 _ **Plunk, plunk, plunk**_ _!_ Tuneless notes ring out through the cavernous hall of the piano room, somehow carrying on their backs a hint of melancholy that can't quite be put into words. This only serves to make the white-haired teenager tapping on the keys to the grand instrument angrier, and the scowl etched onto a scarred face deepens as the reddened fingers of his left hand continue to pick at the ivories. Three weeks since the revelation, and Allen still admits to himself that he hasn't come to terms with it. Not like he shows everyone. Perhaps he's resigned to the present, to the fact that there's some element of the 14th Noah within his mind, but if there's one thing Allen Walker is _not_ resigned to, it's the future that realization entails. _He will kill someone he loves_ —Cross' words etch into his mind, but instead of making him sad, they make him angry. Perhaps it's a good thing, he thinks. He can use anger, probably. He can use it better than sadness, anyway, or despair. Those have their places. He recognizes and accepts this fact. But in _this_ , this situation, he feels as if they are better set aside in favor of fury. Being angry, it keeps him focused. Focused Allen means Allen stays, right? Focused Allen means that the 14th has less room to grip and claw.

Or so he likes to think. Who knows? Maybe he's just using the "anger is useful" excuse as simply that—an excuse. An excuse to question, to be livid (at a lot of people, that list including but not limited to himself, Cross, and Mana), to feel something other than fear. Because, and he has to be honest again, he's terrified. Seeing that shadow in the mirror just beyond the piano, grinning sadistically and inhumanly wide solidifies everything. Solidifies that what Cross said—that he's the host to a Noah's memories, that he will lose his humanity to…to that _thing_ and _hurt someone he loves_ , that Mana _knew_ —solidifies that it's all _real_ and _true_ and _terrifying_ in scope.

He's never realized anything that shattered his foundations before, that shook him to his core. Not until now. Mana dying came close, and indeed, until now, he thought that the death of his adopted father was the most life-altering thing to have ever happened to him. But this? To find out that his entire life, or most of it anyway, has been a lie? That doesn't just _cut_ , it _mutilates_. Like someone took Crown Clown's claws and sliced him into ribbons before putting the remains in a blender for a year.

 _Plunk, plunk!_ Silver-grey eyes glower uncharacteristically down at the inverted board as his fingers cease arbitrarily pressing keys. Appropriately, he ends on a sharp, sour note that reverberates through the room like some sort of auditory personification of the turmoil in his mind. He's not like this. He's not this bitter, not this angry, not this troubled. If one were to ask him, Allen would retort that he's content to leave all the brooding to Kanda, thank you very much—he'd rather be ready with a grin and a kind word than a frown and an insult. Life's so much more than sitting, glaring at everything that moves and scowling at everything that doesn't. _Keep walking_ , Mana told him, and it's a dying wish he intends to keep to his own grave, however close or far that may be. But in that little nugget of advice, he likes to infer that Mana meant to keep walking with a smile (or as much of one as he can muster) because _what's the damn point_ if he can't?

But…how much of what Mana said was meant for Allen, and how much of it was meant for the dead brother of whom _Allen_ is apparently the reincarnation? He ducks his head again so he doesn't accidentally glance at the omnipresent shadow in the mirror, doesn't accidentally rub salt in the raw, festering wound that is doubt. He doesn't like doubt. It tugs at his sanity and makes him ask questions that would have horrified him to even _fleetingly think_ a year ago. Such an identity crisis this is turning out to be, and he laughs bitterly at his own unintentional joke.

Who is he, after all? Allen Walker or the 14th? Who was Mana, really? And what is the God forsaken point to this war? Some familial spat blown out of proportion? A grudge? No matter how it's sliced, it's sickening and senseless. He's _seen_ the souls of the akuma—this level of suffering has no place, war or not, soul or not, human or Noah.

 _Plunk, plunk!_ Another sigh. The quiet of the abandoned city engulfs him, tries to chase away his thoughts while also somehow amplifying them. As if in response to his distress, the birds that rhythmically flock around Noah's ark have disappeared to…wherever it is they disappear to here. He doesn't know. Actually, it's possible, all things considered, that his turmoil _is_ the reason why the silence is so much more pressing than it usually is. It responds to him, to the will of the 14th's successor. Allen normally feels at home in the ark, comforted, but he's not really in the mood for that right now.

"I wish…I…" He sighs. He wishes for a lot of things. Cross' words ring again. He wishes there was a way, _any_ way, to end all of this.

Just one way.

Timcanpy flutters in from outside and perches on his shoulder, a familiar weight. A weight Cross left him, with that recorded message that sounds far too much like a will for his liking. A shake of his head to dislodge the thoughts. Rain, he thinks. Some rain would be appropriate right now, wouldn't it? He wonders if it even _can_ rain in the ark with a bitter chuckle that's more of a sharp exhalation than an actual laugh. The ark responds to his will, after all. To the Musician. With a grin full of self-loathing and desperation, he presses one more, solitary key. He's pleased to hear the thunder rumble immediately, to hear rain pelting the walkway outside the door, and then a screech—

…wait…

Allen's up and off the piano bench in a flurry of motion, wrenching the door open. Feeling the golden golem split his little "face" into a grin is not something he's expecting, nor is he anticipating the image that greets him. A girl, young, shorter than him and absolutely drenched from the torrents of water he just caused to be unleashed from the sky. He fights a wince at that, suddenly feeling a bit guilty. Her dark blue eyes are wide in something that's a mix between shock and utter terror, though he's not sure exactly what is causing both emotions—the snap weather change or him opening the door. Strands of coppery hair are darkened from the water and are gathered in damp ringlets at the nape of her neck, bangs plastered to her forehead. She's wearing a pair of black pants and a lime green shirt about three sizes too big, and it clings to her form instead of hanging limply off of it like he theorizes it should.

"Who are y—," he starts. He cuts himself off quickly, though, realizing there's a much more pressing and important question he needs to ask. This girl's identity can _wait_. Narrowing his eyes, he almost hisses, "How did you get in here?"

To her credit, she looks like she wants to reply. But she's frozen in place, looking all the part of a drowned rat. Her mouth opens and closes slowly a few times, sluggishly, like she knows the words but can't actually say them. She manages to rasp one syllable, and her voice is almost that of someone who hasn't spoken in weeks. Whether it's from disuse or a side effect of her shock, Allen doesn't know.

"I—"

 _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ It's faint, but an unholy screeching sound, an alarm almost, rings out. He doesn't think her eyes can get any bigger, but they do…

…and then she's gone.

Timcanpy flutters out into the rain, circling where the redhead had been. He wonders if he's imagining things, because the way the golem is holding himself seems almost triumphant. He also wonders if he's seeing things _because a girl just vanished in front of him_.

 _Drop! Drop! Drop-drop!_ Rain continues to pelt the abandoned city. Allen keeps staring at that one spot on stone where she'd been standing, that was drier than the rest but is quickly darkening with water.

 _What the hell was that?!_

* * *

 **She feels like all she did was blink** , and she's staring up at a cloudless blue sky that should not be there.

Let her elaborate a bit—she was going to bed. It's cliché, probably, all things considered. But that's that. She was going to bed. She has class the next morning, and it was actually a reasonable hour for once! Tired enough that she was out the second her head hit the pillow. Or, rather, she should have been. She's not. And she doesn't get it.

"The hell…?" Emily Huntington jolts herself into a sitting position. Her back vaguely aches in protest as she finds herself lying on a rather uncomfortable wooden bench, but it doesn't hurt like she's been there long. Not in the least. Her hair stands on end, particularly on the back of her neck, because she's not where she ought to be. Frowning, she pinches herself and jolts because it hurts. Dreaming? She can remember having lucid dreams before, but this…

The first thought that flies through her frazzled mind is "Greece", because the tile-like streets and white buildings are quaint and remind her of pictures of seaside Grecian towns she's seen during late-night, boredom-induced Google searches. Maybe it's not an apt comparison, but it's all she gets. The street she's on is abandoned, and there's an eerie silence. Too quiet, she thinks, shaking her head. There aren't even any birds. None that she can hear, anyway. That's supposed to be ominous, right? No wildlife? Emily gives a scratch to the back of her head as she twists herself to sit properly on the bench, glancing up and down the empty street. She humorously wonders if she's too stunned for the panic to set in, or if that part of her that tends to collapse into jelly in unexplainable situations is still convinced this is all a dream because _she's supposed to be asleep, dammit_.

Sleep… a glance down at herself reveals she's still in the yoga pants and t-shirt that she tends to use for pajamas. Bare feet, she also notes with a grimace, feeling the roughness of the brick-like tile under them when she stands up. This is going to be a bitch to walk on. She can already feel an uneven corner cutting into the arch on her left foot. Ow. Whoever came up with the rule that one can't feel pain in a dream was a liar, Emily grumbles.

Heaving a sigh, she looks up at the sky, turns around in a circle, looks left and right and left again, and basically tries to figure out where in the hell she ought to go. Sleep…well, Emily shrugs, if this is a dream, then she supposes she can go anywhere. So she picks the left, in the direction of some impressive tower, and starts (carefully) shuffling her way along. This whole place is actually kind of amazing. She finds herself proud of her imagination for thinking this one up. The town is beautiful, the buildings perfectly hewn out of stone, the sky just the right shade of blue, vibrant and gleaming. _Gorgeous_ is an understatement.

The teenager takes a few twists and turns, just to see if anything about her surroundings really changes. Minor things—a potted plant on a stoop that wasn't there, a tower she hadn't seen on the previous street—but things for the most part are uniform in structure and aesthetic. It doesn't change the beauty, the girl thinks. Rather, it makes it more appealing in a way. Deliberate. And there is wonder to be found in purpose.

Shaking her head, she reaches her arms behind her neck to tangle fingers aimlessly in her messy ponytail as she walks. Random thoughts fly through her mind, if only to pass the time. Did she study for her AP psych exam like she meant to? She thinks she did. Halfway. She'll have to finish that tomorrow, maybe go over it again just to be sure. The library database updated, so there might be new articles to read. Speaking of articles, can she find that Durkheim excerpt again? There were points on it she was fuzzy about. A reread might help with that. What was it titled again? It was…was from _The Division of Labor in Society_ , she remembers. Her school counselor had recommended it, preparation for the girl who intended on going into social sciences but is undecided on exactly which science.

 _Plop!_

"Eh?!" She leaps probably about three feet in the air when something solid decides to land on her head. Hands catch in hair, and in flying up to feel what landed on her, rip out a few copper strands. Emily hears fluttering and the weight disappears, only for a flash of gold to shine in her peripherals and something spherical is suddenly in her face.

She blinks. It looks suspiciously like the Snitch from _Harry Potter_ , except it's larger, has a long tail ending with a fluffy spiral, something like horns on the top of it, and there's a cross embossed on the front. It's…kind of cute, she thinks as her arms slowly lower. Definitely something her mind would dream up. Probably harmless. She hopes.

"And who are you now?" The girl doesn't really know what she was expecting the response to that question to be, but she _does_ know for a fact that the thing suddenly gaining a body-splitting grin (complete with extra sharp teeth) _was not it_. Another blink, and she draws her hands closer to her body. Those teeth really look quite pointy. She's not keen on losing a finger or two, not that she feels the pseudo-Snitch would (deliberately) take a chunk out of her. Not unless she were to do something to deserve it. She's not quite sure how she knows that, actually—she just does.

Still, the redhead gulps, "You're…something else, aren't you?" The thing gives an experimental bob in the air, as if it was nodding, before it flutters off down a side street, doubles back, and then flutters in the same direction again. It takes a few repetitions before she comprehends the message it is apparently attempting to convey.

"You want me to follow you?" Another bob-nod…thing. She pauses to weigh her options. Yes or no. She must take a second too long—Psuedo-Snitch, as she decides to call it, suddenly breaks out in another grin displaying frighteningly sharp teeth, right in front of her face, and the decision is magically made for her.

Nodding almost frantically, dark blue eyes blown comically wide, she yelps, "O-okay! Okay! I'll follow! Just put those away, please!" Widening its grin for a fraction of a second, it complies and closes its mouth, leaving not even a seam behind. An energetic bounce and Psuedo-Snitch is zipping down the street again. Emily is quick to follow. Does her mind hate her, she wonders? Probably. Those teeth are going to haunt her nightmares.

"W-wait up!"

She still doesn't think it slows, but what it matters is probably very little. The thing doesn't go far, about three streets over and a block ahead, flapping in a circle in front of a wooden door that's been left ajar before slipping inside. She creeps silently up to it, wondering what the trick is that her subconscious is trying to play on her. Surely, that has to be what this is, right?

 _Plunk, plunk!_

Tuneless, sour notes softly resonate from behind the door. A pale hand freezes where it had been reaching for the handle.

"…Piano…?" Murmuring, she can recognize that much. Not out of tune, but whoever is playing it isn't doing a very good job. Or, well, maybe it's just a side effect of her being tone-deaf. Dream, after all. A few more keys are pressed before she hears someone heave a heavy sigh. It elicits a wince from her, not because someone is sighing, but because of the _weight_ behind it. That sigh sounds like it carries the burdens of a hundred worlds.

She deadpans. How depressing…

Another, final key is pressed. She's not expecting it, but practically milliseconds after the resolute chime resonates, the sky _rapidly_ darkens, unnaturally quick. Emily manages to blink, missing the telltale flash before….

 _BOOM!_

"EEP!" The shriek tears itself from her before she can even think to stop it, and she's suddenly being drenched in a torrential downpour that _should not be possible_. More thunder rumbles overhead, trying to mask the clattering from beyond the door in front of her. She barely notices it. Her limbs are trembling, eyes watery with adrenaline. Why, why, _why_ would her dream make it storm?

 _And why is she not able to stop it?!_

She can barely process that thought when the door is wrenched open and she's met with the most startling pair of silver eyes she's ever seen. It's a boy, around her age she'd guess. Taller than Emily by a handful of inches, though that's not much of a feat considering she inherited the short genes. His shock of white hair makes him seem older, as does the bright, vivid red mark running through his left eye.

It looks like a scar, but it's the oddest shaped scar if that's the case. A perfect, five-pointed star above the eye, a jagged line down his cheek, intersected by another line just under the lower lid. She shudders. If that cross line were just a tad higher…this boy's lucky he still has that eye, if a scar is truly what it is.

Psuedo-Snitch is perched quite happily on the boy's shoulder, grinning again. _Sneaky little bastard_ , she wants to say, but the red-haired girl is chagrinned to find that she can't move. She's paralyzed, being soaked by the sudden thunderstorm. She finds herself unable to look away, unable to blink, barely able breathe. It's not shock—something else, but she can't name it. Another ominous flash and rumble before the boy's eyes, wide as her's, seem to clear a little.

"Who are y—," he starts, but clearly thinks better of the question and amends with narrowed eyes, "How did you get in here?"

But she can't speak. She tries, definitely; tries to protest that she doesn't know where _here_ is, and this is _her_ dream, dammit! She should be the one asking what _he's_ doing here, what fucked up corner of her mind decided to place another person in this abandoned city that's chummy with Demon-Snitch over there. But she can't.

Because she can't move.

"I—"

 _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

* * *

 **She flies awake with a terrified screech.** The alarm clock's loud, incessant beeping ringing, echoing in her ears is the first thing that Emily Huntington registers. Then the rain pounding against the glass of her window, low thunder rumbling in the distance. A passing storm.

Her hand fumbles with the button to switch off the clock. 6:00 am. She's breathing hard and heavy as she stares at the neon numbers with wide eyes.

 _What the hell was that?!_

A dream, she's quick to think. Just a dream. Swinging her legs out from under the toasty warmth of the mussed blankets, she rises to her feet.

Only to freeze when something stings on her left foot. A groan is pulled from her. Did she step on a wood shard again? Sometimes she hates having a fireplace. Falling back to sit on the bed, a leg is propped onto the other to look at the offending appendage. She freezes again and stares in shock. No. That's not…

On the arch of her left foot lay a small scrape from a brick-like tile that is supposed to be a dream.

 _What the hell is going on?!_

* * *

 **Final Words:** Badum-tsssss!

I'm tired. Ignore me.

R&R!

~SurreptitiousFox


	2. Dreams No Mortal Dared to Dream

**_Through Darkest Unknown  
By:_** _SurreptitiousFox245_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ I don't own DGM. All rights go to their respective peoples. I'm just borrowing.

 _ **Quick Author's Note:**_ Sorry for the wait. This is unfortunately more of a side project for me, my main focus being my Dragon Age and Elder Scrolls crossover, and with school starting again soon and me having some newfound health issues as of late (finding out you have epilepsy when you're 20 and spent your whole life planning on being in law enforcement isn't fun), I'm gonna have less time to write. Updates are going to be sporradic, but I promise that I will not abandon this story.

Anyway, hope y'all enjoy!

* * *

 ** _Chapter 2:_** Dreams No Mortal Dared to Dream

* * *

" _Deep into that darkness peering,  
long I stood there, wondering, fearing,  
doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal dared to dream before._"

-Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven"

* * *

 **She creeps through the locker-lined hallways absently** , body going through the motions and mind not quite there to process it. Emily isn't usually this distracted in the mornings, but she'll argue until she's blue in the face that she has every right to be for this particular one. The sole of her left foot gives a phantom sting, as if to just remind her that the scrape is still there, unexplained and staunch. Impossible, but there. She has no logic to give the situation she finds herself in any inkling of elaboration. It frustrates her. Frustrates her beyond belief.

Well, of course, the simplest explanation would be that she hurt herself either sometime during the night or before going to bed, and the injury was transferred into her dream by her subconscious. Dreams are a way for the mind to process the day, after all—she knows this. But there's something about writing it off as mundane that doesn't feel right. It all makes her feel like banging her head against a wall in hopes that it might knock whatever screw has fallen lose back into place.

 _That's_ what frustrates her, truthfully-that the logical explanation doesn't feel right. Because _logic_ and _sense_ and _reason_ are her sanctuaries, her havens.

 _Doesn't feel right_. She scoffs at sentiments like that. That she's buying into one now…with this of all things.

But the scrape stings again, and she's back to square one.

Some kid pushes by her in a rush to get to class, but she ignores him instead of grumbling about it like she normally would. She's hard-pressed to care this morning. A few sharp turns and she's found her homeroom. More shuffling through rows of desks and laughter of the other students who find her general weirdness repulsive, and she's in her seat. Immediately after homeroom is science, in the same classroom, but it's just one of those days and Emily knows she's not going to be able to concentrate. Maybe that's what she needs, though—chemistry. Good ole' scientific method and hypotheses and data to get her head on straight again.

Who's she kidding—she hates hard sciences, preferring a human element to her experiments, but she can't keep making her dream more than what it is. A dream. That's it. Weird, even for a lucid dream, but a dream nonetheless. The scrape on her foot is happenstance. No more, no less. Happenstance.

Her teacher drones on about chemical formulas, but even that can't distract the teenager from the fact that she doesn't believe herself for a minute.

* * *

 **Lunch period doesn't bring with it any relief.** For one, Amanda is hounding her. Not unusual, but the redhead isn't in the mood to deal with her best friend's antics. Not today.

To her credit, though, the blonde _does_ seem to realize this about halfway through an hour of her babbling being accompanied by nothing but Emily moodily picking at her sandwich. "Hey, you don't look so good. Something up?"

Emily shoots her best— _only_ —friend a glower that's halfhearted, and the other girl knows it. Or doesn't notice the venom, that's always a possibility with her. Amanda is the blonde, peppy, cheerleader-type at first glance, but she somehow during middle school ended up going the band geek route. Not that one could tell by looking at her, but that was half the appeal to it for Amanda, Emily thinks. She's known the blonde since they were five, and Amanda has never been one to do what's expected of her. Outside the box or not at all, she likes to claim.

"No."

"Oh, my Emily-is-lying senses are tingling now," Amanda huffs, all but climbing across the end of the long lunch table the two always claim for themselves. "Spill. Parents fight again? Brother Dearest finally find a way to get on your nerves? Ooh, no! Did you finally run out of random statistics to pack away in that head of yours?"

The redhead rolls her eyes, grinning despite herself. Coming from anyone else, all of that would have seemed taunting, but not from Amanda. "No. Just…weird dream, is all." It's meant to placate, but it only makes the other girl suddenly drop all humor and frown. Too much concern, Emily thinks. Or maybe not. She doesn't know.

Green eyes soften a bit along with her usually boisterous voice. For all the annoyance she can be, Emily will always cherish the fact that Amanda knows when privacy is more important than levity. "Are the episodes back?"

"No!" Emily's quick to shake her head back and forth. "No. Just a run-of-the-mill weird dream. I didn't sleep too well. Thanks, but it's nothing to worry about, honest!"

Amanda leans back to sit properly again in her chair, picking up the wrapper from her silverware and throwing it at the redhead's face halfheartedly. "Better be nothin'! And you better take a nap when we get outta' this hellhole. Lack of sleep isn't good for you especially."

It's Emily's turn to frown. "School isn't that bad! And you're not my mother!"

"Pshh! Best friend, same difference. Nerd."

"No, it's not! Amanda!"

* * *

 **He is back in the ark the following night.** He tells himself that the gloomy, foggy island that is Headquarters contributes, and he visits the ark again for the clear skies and perfect, decidedly _not_ chilly temperatures, but Allen knows that's a lie. At least this time around. Tonight, he is in the ark out of curiosity. A little fear. A tad bit of trepidation. But mostly curiosity.

He has to know if the girl is a threat, first and foremost, provided her strange appearance in the abandoned city wasn't a one-off. Allen is fairly certain that he cut any access the Noah had to the ark after reversing the download back in Edo, but in his short fifteen years of life, the exorcist has come to realize that nothing should surprise him anymore. And along with that, that nothing should truly be considered impossible.

No one thought a Level 4 was possible, and, well, _that happened_.

So the Noah finding some way to infiltrate the ark the Order now technically possesses via himself isn't completely off the table as a possibility. Even if she isn't a Noah or otherwise affiliated, who she is and what she wants isn't clear. She looked confused and lost, sure, but vanishing like she did when he found her? Allen shakes his head. He doesn't know what that was, but it has " _suspicious_ " written all over it.

Timcanpy flying almost teasing circles around his head drags him out of his musings as he wanders what of the city they've managed to map (he isn't going to chance getting hopelessly lost when he does have a bit of a time limit to mind, thank you very much). This causes him to frown at the not-so-little-anymore golem. Tim had seemed…odd around her, hadn't he? And when he came back into the room—had the golem been leading her?

"Did you find her, Tim?" he asks rhetorically, letting the sphere land on his outstretched hand and not expecting much in way of response. Tim is smart and creative in communicating, but never has the golem ever spoken. He deadpans. Not that Allen wouldn't put it past Cross to have modified something akin to vocal chords on Timcanpy. He already has a mouth…

Speaking of mouth, that sharp-toothed grin stares up at him, a bit too mischievous for the teenager's liking. "Why do I feel like you're up to something?" More grinning, and Allen sighs.

He tries not to let his thoughts get too dark as he wanders, waiting for…well, he doesn't really know what. It's difficult considering recent events. He's grateful for the reprieve from mission after mission after mission—Komui's influence, no doubt—but a part of him wishes for something to do only so he doesn't have time to think. Allen won't lie—Cross' death is a blow he can't quite put to words. Yes, his master hadn't been the greatest person. He had plenty of flaws that a young child probably shouldn't have been exposed to, but Allen also has to ask where would he really be without Cross? He doesn't know. Probably dead somewhere. He doesn't like thinking it, but it's the truth. He doubts he would have snapped out of the state he was in after Mana's death without the general, much less become the exorcist he is today.

Then the 14th would have just taken over eventually. Still might, but would he be fighting against it so much had things not turned out the way they have? The answer isn't optimistic.

And then, he thinks, another reason Cross dying hits him so hard is because of how he viewed the man. Insufferable, maybe, a bit too selfish and greedy to a fault, knowing far too much and refusing to share the damned information…but Cross also seemed so infallible. Infallible in the same way Allen had seen Mana as invincible—and isn't it ironic in the worst of ways that the two people he'd seen as unbreakable ended up dying so tragically?

It's three more purposeless turns before he hears the muffled gasp that he suspects he was not meant to hear. It doesn't matter, he hears it anyway, and jerks himself around to face the figure seated on one of the odd benches scattered along the white buildings. The strange girl who had been occupying his thoughts stares back at him, pale, shaking hands clasped over her mouth under ocean eyes that are blown wide in something straddling the fine line between shock and fear. Something twinges in him at that, at her fright, but he can't afford the time to ponder it. She's dressed similarly to the last time he saw her, sans being soaked through. Her shirt is the only difference, being a pastel yellow in color instead of too-bright lime.

Timcanpy flaps his way over to the redhead, much to Allen's chagrin, and circles her a few times. She doesn't seem to notice him. "Y-you!" He didn't think her eyes could go any wider, but they do when he speaks.

"Me?" she squeaks. Her voice is not quite as scratchy with shock as it was before. Lower than one would think by looking at her, though. "This is my dream! Why would you have to ask me that?"

Any thoughts, preconceptions, suspicions halt so suddenly, he's surprised he doesn't give himself whiplash. "Dream?"

This nameless girl's eyes darken with a spark of anger as she lowers her hands to curl defensively into fists at her throat. She fidgets, he notes. Incessantly, and her eyes dart around as if remaining in one spot is too difficult. "Yes! Dream! I can usually wake myself up, but I couldn't last night and I can't now! And I remembered all of it when I woke up! 90% of a dream is lost within the first minute of waking, but I remembered everything! That's not normal!" The ends of her ponytail are fisted in her hands, and she yanks at the curls as if fighting the urge to pull them out of her skull.

"This isn't a dream," he responds, brows now furrowed in a bit of concern because she honestly looks as if she's worked herself into quite the state over this. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

"No, I'm asleep!" she wails. "I closed my eyes, and then woke up here! Just like last night! And then my alarm went off and I woke up in my room again! But I had this damned thing on my foot, and…and!" Allen notes the way she's carefully avoiding putting the sole of her left foot on the ground, and he only assumes from her lack of shoes that she somehow hurt herself on the bricks. He takes a cautious step closer, hands raised in what he hopes is a nonthreatening manner. Looking at this girl…she's not dressed as if she came here purposefully. Why wouldn't she have shoes? Appearing disarming is one thing, but this? Maybe he's too trusting, but there's something _off_ here.

Timcanpy hesitantly flips about her shoulders, but the golem refrains from landing on her. Probably best considering her panic. "Miss, it's okay. My name is Allen. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on, and you're not making much sense." He still watches her, keeps his distance. She sniffles a little against the tears, takes a shuddering breath, loosens her grip on her hair, fidgets more with her fingers, but she doesn't move as if to strike. He takes that as a good sign.

"I-I'm Emily. Where…where are we? Why are you the only person I've seen?"

Allen purses his lips in thought. "First, I need to know how you got here, Miss Emily."

"Just Emily. Please." Her nose scrunches at the formality, but she otherwise complies. "I told you. I went to sleep. It's like I just closed my eyes and then I woke up on this bench. The same thing happened last night, except I got up and wandered around. This…thing seemed to want me to follow it." She gestures to Timcanpy with a half amused, half annoyed look on her face that Allen can honestly sympathize with. He loves Tim, but the golem is a handful.

The boy grins a little in an attempt to be reassuring. "That's Timcanpy. He's a golem. I wondered if he led you to the piano room."

She blinks in response. "Seemed like it, I suppose. A-anyway. I…I wandered around, but before I could say anything yesterday after you found me, my alarm woke me up, and I woke up in my bed in my house. I scraped my foot on the bricks last night, and it was there when I woke up. I don't know what's going on. I'm asleep, I _know_ I'm asleep, but I can't wake myself up. Things that happen to me here translate. Where are we?" Oceanic eyes are pleading with him for answers, and he deflates a little. She's a scared girl not understanding what's going on. The least he can do is try to answer her questions. Cautiously, but still try.

"Noah's Ark. It's usually empty when it's not in use, but I walk it at night sometimes."

Her laugh was expected. "Okay, good one. Where are we really?"

"Noah's Ark," he answers again, dry and deadpan. Her brows creep up to her hairline as a few seconds pass by and she realizes that he's being serious. It takes her several seconds longer than it probably should have, but he has to concede that the entire situation is beyond odd. He'd be having trouble accepting such an answer if he were in her shoes…metaphorically speaking.

"Oh, God," she mumbles finally. "You're serious. So, either you're telling me the truth, or you at the very least believe it to be the truth. But…no left side favoritism, you didn't look in that direction. Steady eye contact. No change in blinking patterns. You…you really aren't lying. Oh God."

Allen does furrow his brow at her rambling, a little bemused. Blinking patterns? Left side favoritism? She hasn't looked at him straight for more than a few seconds—how could she possibly notice all of…whatever that is? It's pushed aside though as her breathing steadily becomes more labored in her panic. "Miss—er, Emily. Emily, breathe, it's okay."

"No, it's not! I'm _dreaming_ , I have to be, and…and somehow… I thought Noah's Ark was supposed to be a boat! I need…I need to wake up! This isn't real! _You're_ not real!"

Allen winces, not having expected that to hit him at all. _Allen Walker is really Mana's construct, isn't he?_ The question rolls through his head without his consent, but he pushes it away with shaking hands. He kneels down so he is face to face with the now sobbing girl, but he is careful not to reach out and touch her. "I don't know what's going on, either, but denying that it's happening isn't going to get us an answer."

"Take your logic and shove it! I need to wake up, dammit!" It's muffled and cracked from the hands over her face and the tears, but he deciphers it nonetheless. She's rocking herself slightly, little motions probably meant to soothe, but it seems to not be working. "Emi—!"

 _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

She's gone again, and he's once more left with a disconcerting silence that gives him no answers.

* * *

 _ **Final Words:**_ I'm making these chapters shorter than my norm (2-3,000 words as opposed to my usual 10,000) because I'm trying to illustrate the fact that Emily's appearances in the Ark aren't very long. Typically, the longest dreams we have at a time are around 30-45 minutes long and occur mostly in the morning hours. I'm just trying to illustrate the fact that the time spent dreaming is actually rather brief, so the amount of time Emily actually spends in the ark isn't that long at all. It'll gradually get longer. Gradually. Not at first, though.

R&R!  
~SurreptitiousFox


	3. Don't Be Afraid to Be Confused

_**Through Darkest Unknown**_

 **By** : SneakAttack29

* * *

 **Chapter 3** : Don't Be Afraid To Be Confused

* * *

" _Don't be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen._ "

-George Saunders

* * *

 **She feels ridiculous** that night cautiously crawling into bed wearing slippers.

The notion of it is insane, and Emily fights with herself several times, warring the skeptic against the caution. The idea of being _somewhere else_ in her dreams, physically there in some manner? She doesn't want to believe it. Nothing she knows of can explain it. Nothing concrete gives her any answers, and while the experiences themselves have thus far proven to be quite tangible, the reasons have stubbornly been anything but. Emily Huntington does not like not knowing. To say the past few nights have been driving her crazy is a vast understatement of epic proportions.

Still, the image of swirling silver-grey eyes and jagged red scars dance behind her lids every time she tries to forget that the past two nights ever happened. No, that boy was quite real. The weird sphere thing—Timcanpy, did he call it?—had a weight when it landed on her. Her _goddamn foot_ stings. It's just not making _sense_. A glance is stolen at the alarm clock on her dresser across the room (just to make extra sure she won't hit snooze). The numbers read a reasonable 9:33pm in blocky neon green, the little blip in the upper corner indicating that her alarm is indeed set for six the next morning as is appropriate for a Tuesday night. She rubs a hand over her face as if to scrub away the anxiety, flips the light off, and nestles down to sleep, focusing all the while on that beautiful abandoned town and those too-pretty silver eyes.

 _Time to get this exercise in futility over and done with,_ is the last thought through her head before her consciousness drifts away.

* * *

 **To her chagrin, it works.** One moment she's cuddling her pillow, and the next thing Emily knows is the Grecian cobblestones and clear blue skies of the strange town the boy, Allen, claimed is Noah's Ark. She isn't quite sure if she believes that or not, but whatever this place is, the redhead cannot deny that it is gorgeous.

Taking a deep breath, she pushes herself up from the stone bench and gingerly puts her feet down on the ground. A relieved breath escapes her when she sees her hard-sole moccasin slippers fixed firmly in place where they should be.

"I can't believe that actually _worked_ ," she chuckles a little wryly. In hindsight, why some part of her firmly believed she would not wake with the slippers on she does not know. If they didn't, then her having clothes on upon appearing here in the first place would be questionable.

She suddenly glances down at her old cherry red t-shirt with the M&Ms logo across the front, quite glad that such is not the case.

Deciding nothing will be accomplished by sitting around and waiting for something to happen, Emily stands slowly and starts aimlessly wandering through the streets. This place is… _peaceful_ , she notes. Serene. Quiet, but not so much that the silence is deafening. There's just enough background noise to allow one to keep sanity.

For reasons of which she is not entirely sure, she keeps an ear out specifically for a piano. The boy the first time she saw him had been tapping at a piano, hadn't he? It makes the most sense, then, to try looking for that instead of staying in one place with the far-fetched hope that he'll magically find her.

She tries to remember the path she took to get to that specific building, but everything essentially looks the same. She's not entirely sure she's appearing in the same place. If she's not, remembering the directions will be pointless. Sort of like the wandering, now that she thinks about it.

"Um…hello?" she tries with a wince. Clearing her throat, Emily says a little louder. "Hello? Is anyone there? A-Allen?"

A few beats, and the girl isn't sure if she wants to laugh or cry at the coincidence of her luck when the sound of footsteps approach and a those same silvery eyes she can't get out of her head pop around a nearby corner. "Miss Emily? You're back!"

A weak grin twitches on her face as she wraps her arms sheepishly around herself. She says, "Well, I've h-hardly got a choice in the matter. I don't mean to keep barging in here like…this. Whatever _this_ is. And please, just Emily." His face turns a little meek, but she can tell he's still a bit guarded, a tad cautious, as he inches a few steps closer so they're not shouting across the small square in which he found her.

"Right, sorry! It's a habit," Allen chirps. "So, uh…how are you? I mean, you seemed upset last night. I guess I can't blame you, but…"

Emily tries not to grin. The boy is as awkward as she is. "I guess. I was prepared for it. Lessens the shock. Do you…have any idea why this is happening? You said this is, what was it? Noah's Ark? How is that even possible? Why does this place seem abandoned except for you?"

"It's a bit of a long story," he laughs, scratching the back of his head. Something remains unsaid, something Emily notices. She smiles sadly.

"But you don't trust me with it."

Allen looks as if he's ready to backpedal, but the girl shakes her head. The words are not a question but a statement, and it is a concept she can understand. Why would he trust her? He has no reason to.

"S-sorry," he mutters.

"It's okay. I get it. I just…want to know why I'm here. _How_ I'm here."

His face suddenly goes serious, and he motions towards a nearby bench to invite the girl to sit. She follows his example and settles next to him. Somehow, his countenance appears far older than the years she counts in his face closer up. She runs an inventory of his body language. Loose, mostly open. Honest. Caution is still abundant.

 _Restless_ jumps out at her. The light cotton shirt he wears and the loose pants are mussed and creased. His hair, she notes, is a bit ruffled as if he's been running a hand through it. His eyes look tired, and exhaustion reads in the small slump of his shoulders.

And that's when she notices the hand.

"Oh my god, is your hand okay?" Emily blurts before she can stop herself, quickly blushing and clasping her own palms over her mouth, squeaking an apology. Having been about to speak, himself, Allen's mouth remains dropped as he stares at the girl with befuddlement. The question obviously caught him off guard.

"Uh…what do you…?"

She tentatively motions to his left arm and the scaled, red skin stretched across the black-nailed digits. Her wide eyes also catch a glimpse of what looks to be some sort of crystal lodged under the skin on the back above his wrist. It doesn't particularly appear comfortable. "S-sorry, that was rude of me, b-but is your hand…okay?" Dumbfounded, Allen glances down at his arm. Emily gets the distinct impression that the boy had forgotten that his arm is _abnormal_ , for lack of a better term. It's going to sound discriminatory no matter how she tries to say it, to her chagrin.

"Oh!" he exclaims, a bit of a self-conscious blush rising to his face even as he clenches that hand into a fist and lowers it as if trying to hide it. "That's…well, I was born with it. I don't…well, i-it's…uh…" The shade of red steadily darkens as words continue to escape him. Emily finds it endearingly funny, though she scolds herself for thinking so out of context.

"You don't have to explain if you don't want to! I'm sorry—I shouldn't have asked, it just took me by surprise. I swear I didn't mean anything by it, I'm just so confused." Blue eyes fix on the cobblestones beneath her slippered feet. She doesn't like eye contact anyway, but the turns of this conversation and her social fumbles are making her want to dig a hole and crawl in.

Allen is quick to reassure her. "No, it's fine. This is probably strange to you. Where are you from? That might help figure this out. Your accent is American."

A shaky inhale and a nod preceded her answer. "Yeah. Seattle. West coast. All that jazz."

Curiously, she isn't expecting his head to tilt. "' _All that jazz_ '?"

"Y'know, like the song from _Chicago_? The idiom? Basically means ' _et cetera_ '? I get you're British by the accent, but it's pretty common, especially because of the musical. Broadway isn't exactly only known in the U.S."

"I don't…what's _jazz_ in the first place? Isn't Chicago a city?" is the last thing Emily expects Allen to say.

She stares at the white-haired boy with the strange scar incredulously. "How do you _not_ know what jazz is? It's a music genre! Originated from early African American slave culture in the mid to late 19th century? Really took off in New Orleans in the early 1900s. Swing music, big band stuff from the 1920s through 40s? Seriously? None of that?" She failed to notice the color slowly draining out of Allen's face the more she talked.

"…1920s…?!"

Emily nods slowly, "Yes, 1920s. Almost 100 years ago? Flapper era? Precedent to the Great Depression? End of World War I?" The boy blinks at her, and she slowly becomes concerned. "Does…none of that ring a bell?"

"Mi—uh, Emily. What…year do you think it is?"

Her brow furrows, "October 2nd, 2018…what year do _you_ think it is?" If her voice wavers, neither of them deign to comment.

"…2 October 1853…"

"What? No, that's impossible." The absurdity of that statement considering the rest of their situation hits the both of them a split second after she utters it, and Emily winces. "Well, maybe not, but how is this possible? What the _hell_ is going on?"

"I don't kn—" Allen starts, but both of them jump when a loud beeping sound begins filtering through the air, quickly getting louder. Emily is gone before she can spit out the curse sitting on her tongue.

* * *

 **Allen Walker stares** at the suddenly empty half of the stone bench. The last vestiges of what he assumes to be some type of alarm clock echoing on the surrounding buildings. He blinks once. Twice. Thrice. And not for the first time in three days, he only has one phrase adequate enough to sum up his most recent experience involving the strange—apparently _futuristic_ —girl.

 _What is this?!_

* * *

 _ **Final Words**_ : Please pardon the brief note as well as any errors. I wrote this on my phone, so autocorrect and typing and whatnot gave me some problems.

So the thing with the jazz. Jazz was a fledgling thing in the last half of the 19th century, however it was distinctly American. Southern, specifically. Jazz didn't become a big genre in its own right until the first bit of the 20th century, and the saying "all that jazz" probably wouldn't have been all that widespread until around then. It doesn't help that jazz at the time meant more along the lines of stupid in the late 19th century, and was also a euphamism for sex. That had plenty of jokes I could have made, but those are to be saved for another date. Regardless, due to this lesson in etymology, I went out on a limb and decided Allen probably wouldn't understand the idiom "all that jazz". Yay, history.

Thanks for reading! And sorry this took me so long!

-Sneak


	4. Reality

_**Through Darkest Unknown  
By:**_ _SneakAttack29_

 ** _Disclaimer:_** I don't own DGM! All rights go to their respective peoples.

 _ **Quick Author's Note:**_ Okay, so I totally failed at this last time. It was like 3 am, I had just pulled an all-nighter (never do that when you have epilepsy, it's a bad idea), and wrote the whole of the last chapter on my phone. Not one of my smartest moments. HOWEVER, this is just as short, but was written in what I'd like to consider a more proper manner after the author had some blessed sleep. So.

Also, I went back and made a correction on the dates that I mentioned in last chapter. I was rewatching DGM, and in episode 6, during the sequence involving Leo's mother, it shows her gravestone. The date of death is 1851. I never noticed this before, and I think I'm not alone in assuming that the rough date range of "end of 19th century" meant more around the 1880s. However, because of the date showin in the anime, I'm changing the timeline of TDU to be in the 1853-54 range.

Also, this is a timeskip of 3 months from the last chapter. The first handful of chapters are going to be brief, as the whole of the story is going to revolve more around how Emily plays into things with the war. I'm trying to show bits of how her and Allen's relationship develops, but truthfully, that's not the showcase of TDU that I'm trying to convey. That, my friends, is to be revealed later.

Well, without further ado as this ado is already long enough, ENJOY!

* * *

 _ **Chapter 4:**_ Reality

* * *

" _A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality._ "

-Yoko Ono

* * *

" **No," she hisses** with a glare.

"Do you—"

" _Don't you dare_."

"C'mon, Emily!"

"I mean it, Allen Walker! Don't you dare!"

A moment of silence sweeps through the Ark's Piano Room, when…

"…Do you have any 5s?"

Emily Huntington shrieks in frustration, all but throwing the two cards remaining in her hand at the white-haired boy sitting across from her. Said boy is smiling serenely behind neat rows of matched cards. One could almost say _innocently_ , but after this particular escapade, Emily considers herself enlightened to the demon within. " _How is this even possible?!_ This is the tenth time! _Tenth_ , Allen! It's Go Fish! No one is this lucky at Go Fish! It's chance! What are you doing?! You _have_ to be doing something!"

Allen looks only slightly like he's trying not to laugh at her as he sets the remaining set of four cards to join the rest on the strip of floor between them. A line of bare tile separates their individual spoils—four stacks of cards on Emily's side while his contains a winning number of nine. The redhead almost looks as if she could foam at the mouth any minute, and Allen is only half grudging to admit that seeing the normally reserved and quiet girl so riled is honestly adorable. She's too unimposing for her anger to actually have any weight. In all honesty, she appears more as a pup flailing claws than like a bear gnashing teeth.

In summary: Cute. Her hissing is cute.

There. He said it. Now the thought can move on with its life.

"I'm just playing the game!" he chirps, further amused when her oceanic glower harshens.

" _Bull_ ," she mutters, swatting a few copper curls aside that had escaped from their confines atop her head. She slouches where she sits, arms crossed over a quickly wrinkling, electric yellow shirt with " _Mountains are not funny, they're hill-areas_ " scrawled across the front in blocky black letters. Allen had already numerous times that night given her withering looks over the pun, but she just grinned in response every time. In truth, the only reason the wordplay annoyed him was because it had taken him a few minutes for the pun to click. Emily swore she's never going to let him live it down, and the exorcist believes her. He's found in the past three months of knowing her that the girl is very dogged when she wants to be.

"I am though," he insists as he begins gathering up cards.

His companion merely glares at him in obvious disbelief. "Uh huh." While Allen busies himself with cleaning up their attempt at a friendly card game, Emily picks herself up from the cold Ark floor and meanders over to the sofa along the wall of the very sparsely decorated piano room. Allen won't tell her much about this room, only that it is sort of a "command center" for the whole Ark. He still hasn't told her much about _that_ , either, though she has gotten the rundown of the Black Order, exorcists, Innocence, Akuma, the Noah, and that the Ark came to be in the Order's possession through a series of events in Tokyo…er… _Edo_.

Oh, yeah, and she's also learned that Edo is practically _gone_.

No history book she's ever read made any reference or hint to such a thing, and she's read a lot of them. More so now that she's aware that when she dreams, she's in some version of the past.

Well, an interdimensional pocket in some version of the past.

Gah, her head hurts…

Allen frowns up at the girl when she makes a strangled noise of frustration. She's plopped back unceremoniously on the sofa, face buried in her arms and legs canted over the edge. "Emily?" The girl in question huffs but lifts her arms enough so that she can peek at the exorcist from their corners.

"If I fell asleep wearing my backpack, do you think it and anything in it would make the trip with me?"

He blinks, the question taking him off guard a bit. "I…suppose? I guess I don't see why it _wouldn't_ …" Much as he doesn't want to admit it, it could also be a good thing. With each visit, Emily has been staying longer. Now, three months later, she's in the Ark from the second her mind slips to dreams to the minute she's woken in the mornings. No thirty minute blurbs here and there. Emily mentions it's abnormal to dream like that, but Allen just points out that appearing physically in another dimension in another time when dreaming isn't exactly _normal_ , either.

A pause at his statement, and then she nods. "That's what I thought. I may bring some schoolwork with me tomorrow, if I can. Might as well use the extra time to knock some projects out of the way, right?"

"What?" He asks, trying to act serious but failing miserably. "You don't want to be around me anymore?" She rolls her eyes at him, well aware that he's only teasing her as he's become fond of doing in the last few months.

When they got so comfortable with each other despite the dance of caution, neither of them will ever know.

Emily swats a hand towards where he now sits reclined against the edge of the sofa. "Oh, of course not. You're horrible company. Do nothing but _consistently win at Go Fish_." Allen laughs heartily, reaching his right hand up to poke at her cheek.

"You just need to play better!"

" _Allen!_ "

" _Emily!_ "

Molten silver and ocean blue stare unblinking at each other, a race to see whose resolve crumbles the fastest. Cracks appear in a few places. Chips clatter soundlessly to the ground. _Tick…tick…tick!_

And with a final twitch of the lips, the two teenagers break down into fits of laughter. Allen doesn't remember the last time he felt so _free_. He's trying to be cautious—really, he is. But there's something about Emily that just invites relaxation. There's something about her that just screams "It's okay!" For the first time in a very, very long time, the exorcist doesn't feel the need to hide behind a mask of anything, to be strong, to be infallible. For the first time in a very, very long time, Allen can just be _Allen_. It shouldn't be refreshing, but it is. And he is grateful for it.

Or, he is, until a scoff echoes through his head. The smile on his face drops quickly after that, eyes sliding closed so he doesn't give in to the urge to look over at the window where the sound emanated. Of course, as with anything, the second he seems to be having a relatively good time forgetting about him, the 14th comes nosing his way back into the picture. _Of course_.

He isn't expecting the gentle hand falling on his bowed head. "Allen?" His head jerks up and he's looking again into blue eyes. However, instead of fighting back laughter, they are filled with questions and concern.

And also, far closer than he'd intended.

Blushing furiously, the boy jumps back a bit, glancing off to the side. A sliver of the 14th makes its way to his vision, but he's still summarily avoided, for the most part. "A-ah! S-sorry!" He misses the girl's frown.

"Are you okay?"

He tenses for just a moment before turning back to her with a pasted-on grin. "Yeah! Of course! Just zoned out a bit, is all."

"You're lying," she says bluntly, not missing a beat. "You're too tense, you're favoring your left arm for gestures, and your level of eye contact is disproportionately prominent." Allen winces, having almost forgotten she does this.

Muttering petulantly, the boy glances absently down at his malformed left hand. "You're scary observant sometimes, Emily." The slim hand that had been on his head suddenly falls to cover his knuckles, startling him. Beyond her initial reaction when she first noticed it, Emily isn't afraid of or disgusted by his arm. It's something he still has a bit of a hard time believing.

The girl is quirking a red brow at him. "Stop avoiding the question. What's wrong?"

Allen has to squeeze his eyes closed to try drowning out the disembodied snickering. Aware of his distress despite not knowing the cause, Emily's fingers clench firmly around where they're resting on his own in an attempt to either draw him out of it or reassure him that he is not alone.

Not that he can ever truly be alone in the Ark. Or anywhere that has a reflective surface, really.

The 14th's whispers, despite Emily's attempts, only seem to get louder. Jives and jeering, broken sentences and threats against people he cares about float through only to be heard by his ears. What of the Noah's consciousness that has awakened isn't very cognizant yet, or at least doesn't appear to be. The shadow is loose and can barely form true sentences of much complexity. However, when it does, what it tries to whisper makes Allen sick, the implications behind the utterings.

 _Kill someone he loves_ , is what Cross said. _Kill someone he loves_. How could he do that? The 14th hisses a few more words, poorly formed. _Kill someone he loves_.

 _Kill someone he loves._

 _Kill someone he loves_.

"Allen!" Emily's voice combined with her hand on his jaw forcefully turning his face to look at her jars him out of whatever hole he'd allowed his consciousness to fall through. He must look terrified at the thought—which he is—because the girl leans forward with her other hand to cradle his head and keep it steady. "Hey, c'mon, look at me. You're okay." He feels her thumb catch something, and he's startled when he realizes it's a tear.

He flounders for a few moments, trying to find words. "E-Em…" The girl's face cracks a hint of a smile.

"Hey, there you are!" Her small quirk of the lips turns into a full-on lopsided grin. "Thought you'd gone all space cadet on me, there."

"…Space cadet…?"

She blinks. "Yeah…uh…don't worry about it, it's another expression. You spaced on me. Where were you?"

Allen flinches, something not unnoticed by the futuristic seventeen-year-old. Heaving herself up so she's sitting, she slides down next to the boy on the floor to give herself a more comfortable vantage point. "You can tell me. I know you haven't known me very long, and I know that the circumstances are weird. But, Allen, _you're not alone_. If you want to talk, you can talk to me. No one would believe me if I told them anything, anyway." He pauses. The last part is tossed in as a half-joke, but it's true. He knows she won't say anything to anyone and knows it would be pointless if she did. She's shown him enough proof of her origins in the odds and ends she's dragged through to the Ark with her in her sleep, accidentally and otherwise in experiments. He's fairly trusting of her at this point. He doesn't really think she's working for the Earl, at any rate.

The caricature in the windowpane laughs again, a dare in a piercing howl that makes his mind up for him.

"Do…do you remember when I told you about the Earl and the Noah? Well…"

And he tells her. He tells her everything he can about the Musician, tells her of Cross, tells her of _Mana_ , even. He tells her everything. He bares his past to her, and she listens with rapt attention. She pokes in a question here and there when she needs clarification on something, but she _listens_. She doesn't run, she doesn't do the logical thing and recoil in fear. She _listens._ And he is selfish enough to let her. Eventually, one of them—he's not sure which—ends up leaning on the other for support, and that is how they spend the rest of the night—with him speaking and her listening until she vanishes from the Ark after the resonance of her alarm from her waking world.

When she's gone, Allen leans his head back against the couch, wondering why things suddenly seem bereft.

When she wakes, Emily lays blankly in her bed a few moments, drowning in the screech of the clock across the room.

And in that moment, hundreds of years and thousands of miles apart, both Emily Huntington and Allen Walker break down and cry.

* * *

 _ **Final Words:**_ Alright! There we have it.

So, I have my reasons for skipping over a lot of stuff here, but I would also like to know from you readers if there's any interactions between Allen and Emily that you would like to see, specifically. Now that he's told her about the 14th, I shouldn't be skipping a chunk of time like that again, though I'm more than happy/up to the challenge of crafting any scenes your little hearts desire.

Well, R&R!  
~Sneak


End file.
